Partnership
by Thescarredman
Summary: For some fratelli, conditioning is only the start of the bonding process, and trust born of shared danger transcends programmed-in loyalty. A short fic starring Alfisti's Jethro and Monty.


Jethro eased down the dim hallway, pistol in hand, treading carefully on the marble tiles lest a shoe squeak betray his presence. If the present op was to succeed, he had to get in and out without the master of the house ever knowing he was here. But he was here for two very important items, and wasn't leaving without the most precious of them.

Paulo 'Gato' Lascola was a middleman for illegal goods large and small, presently based in Ravenna. Gato knew Jethro as Peter Henchley, a high-end arms dealer specializing in Soviet armor, and they had nearly closed a deal that would put six million Euro in the Agency's slush fund and Lascola in an Italian prison. But the man had been cagey about the identity of his client, which the Agency very much wished to know, as well as the source of his client's money. They'd been dancing around those points all afternoon in Jethro's hotel suite while they negotiated the deal and hammered out details.

Monty had served drinks and sat quietly by, providing a certain amount of useful distraction, the better for Jethro to observe the man's body language or voice stress. Jethro had introduced her as 'Monique', his niece and a completely trustworthy aide. Gato's eyes had flicked over her, but otherwise ignored her. But when she'd got up to take their glasses to the bar for a refill, he'd said, "Young, Peter, but quite nice. Where did you find her?"

"She's my niece, Paulo," he'd said, not expecting to be believed, trying rather to give the impression that the subject was not open for discussion – at least, not presently. It wouldn't be the first time a man's interest in his partner had opened a door for them.

But Gato had nodded and seemed to lose interest. When Monty had handed him his freshened glass, he hadn't even glanced up at her.

The dinner hour had come, and the middleman had excused himself, promising to return tomorrow. Jethro had seen him to the door and returned to the couch to brood. Lascola was in the bag, but they wanted Gato's information more than they wanted Gato. And they didn't want to give the client a chance to rabbit, which meant getting the information they wanted _before_ taking the middleman down.

"Perhaps I should pay a visit after lights out," his partner had said. "He must have a safe, or a computer, or a Rolodex. Something."

They'd already checked out Lascola's townhouse, a third-story luxury suite in a vintage and pricey building. He'd said, "Think you can get in and out quietly?"

"The only guard is in the lobby, and the security system is state-of-the-art … for 1980. Are you joking?"

Somewhat later, sitting in their Audi outside Lascola's building, Jethro had looked up the building's side to the darkened windows of Gato's place. "Looks like he's asleep." He'd eyed Monty in the seat beside him. She'd been dressed in a short charcoal dress and black thigh-high legwarmers. "Not your usual costume for scaling buildings."

"Or anything else. But the streets around the buildings are busy, even at this hour. It's a bigger worry than the security. I may have to loiter about a bit before I start. Don't want to look _too_ obviously the burglar casing my mark." She'd opened the door; he'd had the interior lights switched off, but the door chime had still sounded softly. "Back in a tick."

Fifteen minutes later, she still hadn't given him the one-ring 'I'm in' signal. Possibly throwing all the results of his partner's stealth in the bin, he'd gone after her. A small bribe and a large lie had got him past the doorman and concierge, and his lockpicks had got him through Lascola's outer door.

The main room had been dark and silent. He'd produced a small torch and shone it around. A hallway had led off, presumably to the bedrooms, possibly an office; he'd turned that way and immediately spotted a light under a door at the far end.

Monty would never have turned on a light, even if she'd been sure the house was empty. He'd doused the torch and drawn his pistol.

At the door, he hesitated. There were small rattling sounds coming through the door. Then voices.

"I'm telling you," Monty said, "he didn't send me. He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't even know I'm gone yet."

"Oh, I believe you, ciccolina," Lascola said, voice oily. "This isn't an _interrogation. _And, we're not going to tell him about it, are we?"

"No."

"Not ever."

She said, matter-of-factly, "I'd rather die."

Lascola's chuckle would have done justice to a B-movie villain.

The knob turned under Jethro's hand and the door swung open.

The room was a small office, with a heavy wooden table instead of a desk. Monty lay half across it, squirming as much as her bonds would allow: her wrists were stretched wide across its surface and secured to the far corners with handcuffs. Her feet were still on the floor, but spread wide as well, her ankles chained to the near table legs. Her dress was hiked up to her waist. Lascola stood behind her, two fingers hooked in the waistband of her underpants. He turned as the door opened, and his eyes widened.

Jethro told himself that he'd got here in time, that his girl had come to no real harm. He told himself that Gato was the key to this whole op, and the knowledge in the bastard's head was the reason they were here. And getting caught in such a compromising position should make him easy to handle and willing to talk. Jethro Blacker was still telling himself those things as he put his third bullet into Lascola's twitching corpse.

"Very dramatic entrance," Monty said; her head bobbed as she spoke, because her bonds kept her chin pressed to the table. "Impeccable timing. Stop in the bar to knock one back on the way up?"

He bent and slapped at the body's pockets. "Bloody _keys?_"

"On the cabinet in front of me," she said, more quietly. "I think he wanted me to be able to look at them while he was busy."

He rounded the table quickly and snatched at the keys clumsily, swatting them to the floor. He bent to retrieve them. "Why did you let him do this?"

"Trying to protect our cover," she said drily. "He _is_ more than twice my size. I knew you'd be along to salvage things in your usual smooth manner."

There was a single key on the ring that would fit a shackle: a like-keyed set, he thought, how very convenient. He released her wrists and rounded the table again, giving Lascola's corpse a kick on the way. He knelt and undid her ankles, then stood as she turned, rubbing her wrists, to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, and he reached out and crushed her against him, pinning her arms and lifting her off her feet to tuck her head tightly under his chin.

A long moment later, she said, "Easy, Guv. Don't break the goods. Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

They hustled past the concierge, who stood watching them with a phone to his ear. They piled into the Audi and sped away, getting lost among narrow back ways. The sound of police vehicles came distantly to them for a bit and then faded away.

"Well," Jethro said, "This operation is certainly circling the bowl."

"Maybe not," she said, extracting a thumb drive from inside her legwarmer, "if we can get this to the Agency's crypto team sharpish."

He huffed and shook his head.

Monty said, "Skipper, you know I'd never criticize you-"

He snorted.

"- but that seemed all rather unprofessional."

"And if it had been the other way round?" Jethro's knuckles stood out as his hands tightened on the wheel. "If you'd walked in and seen that sick bastard about to do something unspeakable to me? You wouldn't have done the same?"

"You know that's not a fair question." She stared out the window. "I wouldn't have shot him."

"No?"

"No. I'd have needed to feel him coming apart in my hands."


End file.
